Flatt and Sharpe
by FLUTE-ESQUE
Summary: It wasn't love. Not by a long shot. They still hated eachother's guts. But when the door closed to that practice room, all bets were off. Oneshot.


There was always something so...wild about the trumpet section.

The way they prepared their lips, the way they made blatting an art, the way they put all their being into pelvic thrust visuals...

The flute section would never understand. Notorious for being right in front of the band director's line of vision, they were a bunch of goody-two-shoes. Always like they had a tuning rod up their ass. But they were observant, that was one thing. The brown eyes of a section leader watched the trumpet section as they dressed in their uniforms, throwing plumes about and laughing. She inhaled sharply as green met brown and became hazel. The trumpet section leader was a figure of a boy-man with jade eyes and hair the color of midnight and an oh-so-nice chest.

But he was her mortal enemy.

Back in their freshman year, he'd seduced the senior flute section leader somehow. The girl flirted with him at rehearsals, never focusing on sets or re-wiring her body for fundamentals. She was so distracted that at contest she'd run into a line of freshman flutes – including this year's section leader – and ruined their whole show. The band had been on a straight 1 stretch for six years. The tumbling flute routine had gotten them a 3. It was the only thing any judge remembered them doing wrong.

Now the new flute section leader – a senior by the name of Holly Sharpe – was not going to be so easily fooled. She had declared war on him as soon as they were off the field.

And since then, Holly Sharpe and Joseph Flatt were forces to be reckoned with.

Fresh fish were warned that they should never be in the same room. The guard captain threatened to strangle them with her flag. A well-aimed baton was thrown at their heads by a very frazzled band director.

Of course, there were plenty of jokes of a secret relationship. Who wouldn't? With last names like Sharpe and Flatt, it would seem that the stars could not have better aligned two band-os. But there was nothing there, just hatred.

However, even though they tried – hell, everyone tried – to keep them apart, they always ran into each other at least once a day.

Today was the final day of band camp, where they did their cute little performance for the teacher assembly and their parents' enjoyment.

While everyone was getting ready, the two's eyes were in a sudden face-off from across the room. He was in front of her slot.

Holly would not stand for that.

The girl marched right on up to him with a certain fiery passion in her eyes. "Move it, Flatt. I _will_ shove a flute up your ass, no problem."

"Oh, you'd enjoy that wouldn't you, Sharpe?" He shot back with a raised brow.

"Very much. I know how you like it rough. But I can't please you tonight in the percussion room unless I can reach my aforementioned flute." The girl of a threatening 4'11 height retorted _sarcastically_ to the boy of 6'1.

"Ooh, big words. I'm a little scared and a little turned on."

"Go fuck a flag girl."

"Just what I was planning on doing."

"Great, so run off with your tail between your legs. I've got an _important_ section to lead."

"Mine more so. At least you can hear us."

"Low blow."

The two were left glaring at each other until finally the boy moved and she snatched her flute case.

"You'll pay for this later." She snapped. The trumpet player laughed it off and then turned his attention to preparing his lips for some action with his mouthpiece.

This was not so. Holly stalked back to the flutes and ran them through some warm ups before commanding them to dress. The girl feigned sudden embarrassment, saying she'd forgotten undershorts for her suspenders, and left her section for the practice room. It was usually turned into a dressing room when someone forgot things like this. The only room without cameras. Slot room and percussion room had too many valuables. But this room was only equipped with a stand and a chair, lonely in the middle. And it was soundproof for better practices. Really, it was just begging to be used for what was about to occur. Perfect little Holly Sharpe freed her curls from their imprisonment in her ponytail, fluffing them out in preparation.

A certain green-eyed, towering boy slipped into the room, trumpet in hand. "I need to practice." He said matter-of-factly, setting his instrument on the chair.

"What a coincidence, I need to undress." Holly said with a little laugh, stepping closer and looking up into his eyes. They were mere inches apart. Then, suddenly, their lips collided and they were all over each other. The petite flautist felt her back being pressed against the wall as she lifted herself up, legs around his hips and arms around his neck.

One could mistake it for passion.

But if they looked closer, they could see that this was a war. Tongues did not dance in sync – they battled for power. A hand would slap another if it ventured to an unpleasing place, then move it forcibly to one that was more acceptable. There were grumbled curse words mixed in with gasps.

This was pretty much a modern Antietam. Sharpe's fingernails dug into his skin, leaving scratches and perhaps drawing blood. Flatt would slam her back against a wall in retort, but they never broke contact. Both of them could handle the pain. Hell, they enjoyed it.

"Told you you would pay..." Holly said, smirking against his lips as she shifted a bit to torture him. Those wonderfully green eyes darkened with lust.

"Shut it, Sharpe."


End file.
